


Through the Shadows of Hell

by reapertownusa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cock & Ball Torture, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non Consensual, Nudity, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/pseuds/reapertownusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean goes back on Alastair's rack to save Sam, who is forced to watch the torture. When Dean has to again pick up the razor, Sam is there to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Dub-con, non-con, torture, suicidal intentions
> 
> Author’s Note: AU tag to 'Death Takes a Holiday' that includes all relevant info so it still makes sense if you're not familiar with the episode. This was started right after the episode aired and was the second SPN torture/non-con story I played with, one of my first SPN stories period. It finally got finished up for kink_bigbang. Many thanks to gwendolynd and rince1wind for the beta!

Every time Dean thought he'd hit rock bottom, the world proved him wrong.

Not long after arriving in town, they’d discovered that Alastair, who Dean had thought had been fried extra-crispy by the angels, was alive and well. The son of a bitch had been in town reaper hunting to break another seal.

Dean in his infinite wisdom, had decided the only way to save the reapers was for him and Sam to become ghosts. It had sounded like a safer alternative than letting Alastair and Sam be together in the flesh.

Learning to be a ghost had its perks, but all they’d really done was save a reaper so that people in the sorry town of Greybull, Wyoming could start dying again. After that heroic accomplishment, Dean had tagged along with Tessa to reap some poor kid on the lie that he was going to a better place. Those had been the day’s high points.

He and Sam had still been haunting the town when Sam had disappeared. Dean hadn’t thought much of it at first. The kid, Cole, had showed them ropes, but neither of them were exactly Jedi Masters at this ghost thing. His brother could have popped back up anywhere.

Admittedly, aimlessly wandering around town in search of his temporary ghost of a brother ranked among the most useless things Dean had ever done. At least it was something to do, something to take his mind off Alastair.

Up to this point, he’d managed to deflect Sam’s questions about hell and the demon. Sure, he’d told him things, enough that Sam no longer wanted to ask, but Dean hadn’t actually told him anything. He never would.

There was no way for his brother to understand and Dean didn’t want him to. It was bad enough that he had to carry it around in his own head. Dean wanted to pretend that he’d forgotten. He wanted to really forget.

Somehow, strutting around without his meat suit only heightened Dean’s senses. He couldn’t feel the wind, but energy shifts at the core of his being told him something was coming.

He spun around, taking a wary step back and scanning the shadows the surrounding warehouses cast over the empty street. Next to nothing could hurt him right now. He was a freaking ghost. That knowledge didn’t stop the cold from filling him. The proverbial hairs at the back of his neck stood on end.

“Sam?”

The word barely slipped from his lips before he was yanked back like the snap of a taut rubber band. He was falling with nothing but the rush of a bright light closing in. 

He reached out, blindly reaching for something to slow his fall, but nothing was there. Even his arms were gone. There was only the endless decent and a familiar terror. In that instant of crystal clarity before he hit bottom, he knew he’d been here before.

With his next desperate gasp for air, he waited for his lungs to burn with the acrid stench of sulfur. Any moment, his body would sag heavy against the tug of the meat hooks lodged in his flesh. His ears would blister from the hollow screams.

Instead, his next sensation was of lying on something soft. His brow creased and his eyes flew open, anxiously darting around before they could even fully see. Once his eyes did focus, he saw ugly green tiles, not walls of fire. He’d been dragged back into his body, not back to the Pit.

Dean’s muscles relaxed into the mattress. He stared up at the ceiling, blinking away the last of his disorientation. When his head tilted to the side, he saw his brother still lying prone on the other bed. He rolled off the edge of the mattress and stumbled to Sam’s side.

“Hey, Sammy, snap out of it.” 

Dean was reacquainted with how to move his body by the time he tapped Sam’s cheek. His brother didn’t flinch, his eyes remaining closed and his breath disturbingly steady. Nobody was home.

His hand set on Sam’s shoulder as he looked around the room. They shouldn’t be alone. Worse than not seeing Pamela was the gnawing sensation that the room wasn’t as empty as it seemed.

A sound in the bathroom confirmed what his gut was telling him. It was the creaking of a floorboard just loud enough to be heard and just far enough behind the door to be out of sight. Dean pulled his gun from his waistband.

“Pamela, you there?”

It was a stupid question. She had to be here. He couldn’t have woken himself from the dead.

When no answer came, he glanced back to Sam and then rose to his full height. He tightened his grip on the pistol. A quiet click and the safety was turned off.

The bathroom was in easy view of the beds, but the door was half closed and the small room shrouded in shadows. He approached cautiously, keeping his back to the wall, before kicking the door the rest of the way open. It hit the wall without interference.

Before he could click on the bathroom light, the answer to his question came from back beside the beds.

“Guess again.”

Amusement laced the sneered words, dripping with an easy familiarity that knotted Dean’s stomach. His shoulders stiffened and he spun on his heels with his gun raised. Even as his mind screamed to run for the door, he was rushing to his brother's side.

This was an enemy he couldn’t fight. This was a demon who knew him better than he knew himself.

Dean’s hurried steps stopped a few feet from Sam’s bed, where Alastair stood. The demon’s lips rose in a mockery of a grin. His razor traced lazy circles, promising to expose the layers beneath the tender flesh of Sam’s jugular if Dean took one step closer.

“Alastair.” Dean only managed to speak the word because it was so familiar, spilling easily from his mouth. “Don’t you even think about...”

One look and Dean’s breath caught in his throat. Alastair raised his brow and lowered his gaze to the cocked pistol clutched in Dean’s hand.

“A gun? Really, Dean?” Alastair’s sigh was patient, a tsking sound clicking on his tongue. ”Still neglecting to use that noggin of yours, I see.”

The razor moved lower, nicking the skin of Sam’s neck, releasing a thin line of blood. Dean’s finger tightened around the gun’s trigger. It wouldn’t help. Alastair didn’t even care that he held it. Shooting the demon would either piss him off or get a chuckle out of him, depending on his mood. Neither would save Sam.

Even though the gun was useless, Dean gripped it with white knuckles. The moment he set it down, there would be no pretending he could defend his brother.

Sam on Alastair’s rack – that was the real nightmare that had haunted Dean in hell. While Alastair had ripped into him, Dean had been comforted only by the fact that he was the one being torn apart. It wasn’t Dad and it wasn’t Sam. 

“Don’t.”

Dean wanted the word to be an order, at least a threat. It was barely a plea and only tickled Alastair’s amusement further.

“So good of you to join us in the flesh,” Alastair said. “It’s no fun topside without your meat suit. Believe me, I know.”

Dean lowered the gun, removing the last physical barrier between them. It wasn’t the total futility of holding it that made him set it aside, but how unsteady it was in his hand. He wouldn’t give Alastair the satisfaction of seeing his nerves.

It was a good excuse anyway.

Truth was, Alastair could see it all. In Alastair’s presence, every shadow of Dean’s soul was scorched by illuminating flames. Every secret he painstakingly kept, every fear he choked down beneath the cover of his game face. Nothing could be hidden. There’d been a time when Dean hadn’t even wanted to try.

It was just one more thing Sam could never know. One more reason he would never, could never, explain Alastair to his brother.

Alastair hadn’t only been his torturer. He’d been everything, the only constant aside from pain to hold onto in the abyss. It hadn’t been fondness, but need, that had held Dean at Alastair’s side in hell.

This wasn’t hell. Alastair couldn’t be here. It fucked everything up.

Alastair’s presence shattered the barrier Dean had tenuously stacked up between himself and the Pit. The demon had never stopped waiting for Dean in his nightmares, but in waking, that line in the sand between past and present had been the division that let him pretend he could move on.

With Alastair here, Dean couldn’t say it was over. He couldn’t pretend he had never bent over backwards for the slithering words of encouragement this monster had given more freely than Dean’s own father. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t needed Alastair to hurt him. To show him how to hurt. 

He hated Alastair, hated him to the core with everything he was, but not for what he’d done to him. Not really. What Dean really hated was what had been revealed inside himself.

Dean wasn’t any better than Alastair. He was worse. He straddled the fence, not good enough to qualify as human, not bad enough to cut it as a demon. It didn’t matter what he tried to do – he was crap at it.

It was that fear of failing once again that held him locked in place. He didn’t know why Alastair was here or the purpose of this particular game. Alastair liked to keep the rules to himself. He could deal out more punishments for infringements that way.

When Dean was in line to take the hit, it was only a game, but with Sam on the line, Dean couldn’t risk making the wrong move. He had to get Alastair’s attention off his brother.

Dean tossed the gun aside on the dresser with a deceptive casualness neither he nor Alastair believed. “You woke me up.”

Alastair pulled the razor away from Sam. It was still in play, still only six inches from what could be a killing slice, but it was no longer tracing his brother’s defenseless throat.

“Your friend, she was quite enlightening," Alastair said. "Weak, but it’s hard to get good souls around here, wouldn’t you agree, Dean?”

“Pamela.... What’d you do to her, you son of a bitch?”

“She had to go.” Alastair tilted his head to glance up towards the ceiling. He gave a disgruntled sigh. “Not destined for your old spot, I’m afraid. Her appointment was upstairs.”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

“You could try.” Alastair tapped the flat of the razor’s blade against Sam’s neck, “But then Sam, he’d be talking out of his Adam’s apple. And as funny as that would be....”

“It’d be like torturing a corpse.” Dean took a step closer. It felt like wading through molasses. His breaths came no more easy. “You’d get bored too fast.”

The razor lifted from Sam’s throat to point towards Dean. There was no threat, only an approving nod. “You always did look out for me. It’s sweet, really–"

“What the hell do you want, Alastair?”

The demon took in a musing breath, turning to sit on the edge of the bed and face Dean. “All these little trips upstairs, they’re really getting dull, but I have to say things downstairs.... They’re just not the same without you, Dean. You really brightened the place up. I miss our little sessions.”

“That makes one of us.”

“You really expect me to believe that?” Alastair chuckled. “I know what you dream.”

“Good for you.” Dean averted his gaze to the floor. He swallowed hard, struggling for control before looking up again to meet Alastair dead in the eyes. “Get away from my brother.”

“Happily. Like you said, he’s quite the bore.” Alastair shifted as if he was about to stand before settling back down. The demon set his hand on the Sam’s leg, only further triggering Dean’s drive to protect his brother. “There’s just this one little condition.”

Dean tongue darted out to wet his lips. The room was drenched in heavy silence. Whatever it was, Alastair would make Dean ask for it. He would make him beg.

His voice was a quiet rasp. “What?”

“We’re going to play a game,” Alastair said. “You know, for old time’s sake.”

“I’m through playing games with you, you sorry sack–“

“Or we could play with Sam. Your choice.” The blade was brought up to skirt the edge of Sam’s jaw. “Enough blood makes anything fun.”

Dean jerked as another nick of the razor, deeper this time, brought a fresh trail of blood to the surface of his brother's skin. It winded down the arch of Sam’s neck to drip down, crimson spots blossoming on the cream and red plaid comforter.

“Stop,” Dean said. “What do you want?”

“You.”

Dean’s breath hitched at the drawled out word accompanied by a sparkle of eagerness in the demon’s eyes. The razor had left Sam’s throat, Alastair’s fingers thrumming against it. It wasn’t a question. They both knew Dean would give everything he had and more to keep Sam out of this.

“Okay,” Dean said, having to grind out the word. “You got me.”

“Now. In your honest to goodness meat suit.” 

Dean squared his shoulders, gritting his teeth. “I said okay.”

Alastair raised his brow, his finger trailing along the razor’s edge. “Wouldn’t you like to hear the terms?”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your damn rules. We both know you’re gonna do you what you want, and I’m gonna say yes, so let’s skip the foreplay.”

A smile cold as an arctic wind swept over Alastair’s face. “It’s good to have you back, Dean.”

The demon stood, stepping towards Dean while still caressing the razor. Dean locked his knees to keep himself in place. His chest hurt. Everything hurt and Alastair hadn’t even touched him yet.

“But just so we’re clear,” Alastair said. “I won’t touch a hair on his precious head so long as you play along. No restraints. You fight, try to run – you do anything to step off the rack, Sam goes on. You can scream your lungs bloody. You know how I love the sound.”

Alastair stopped his progress, standing close enough for his exhale to heat Dean’s cheek. Dean closed his eyes, turning his head away. The demon droned on without taking offense.

“But if anyone comes to the door, you put them on the rack. Otherwise, we’re back to Sam. I’m sure you’re catching a theme.”

“You bastard,” Dean whispered.

“Now is that a yes I hear?”

Dean opened his eyes, but dropped his gaze to the floor. “And this goes on...until I’m dead?”

“Oh son, you know death won’t stop this.” Alastair placed the hand holding the razor on Dean’s shoulder, the cold steel brushing against the stubble of Dean’s cheek. “This never stops.”

Dean nodded wordlessly.

“But you don’t die here,” Alastair said, “if that’s what you mean.”

“Why not?” Dean stared over Alastair’s shoulder to the unconscious body of his brother. “Why not just kill me?”

“Big plans for you, boy, but if it was up to me,” Alastair leaned in impossibly closer, his beard brushing against Dean’s neck, sending a chill through his already numb body, “I’d take you home.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Dean!”  
If Sam wasn’t on the astral plane, his voice would be hoarse, his throat near to bloody from how many times he had shouted his brother’s name. Dean wasn’t hearing him.

Sam knew it was something Alastair had done. He’d caught the tail end of the demon chanting over his body when he’d been pulled back into the room, but not enough to translate. He also didn’t know where Pamela had gone. He was sure he didn’t want to know.

The demon had only rambled off some nonsensical statements about all the fun he and Dean had used to have together. From the first moment, it was clear that Sam was only a pawn here – that Alastair planned to use him against Dean.

Every last one of Sam’s threats had gone ignored. The demon had only checked the circle of iron chains with a smug smirk and walked away.

Sam was in the motel room. He stood five feet from Dean, but he couldn’t cross the boundary of iron laid out on the floor. The table and careful placement of their bags hid the chains from view, but from his corner prison, Sam could see and hear everything.

Alastair had pulled Dean back into his body. Now the demon was propositioning his brother for something Sam didn’t understand.

Dean knew the demon from hell, that much Sam had figured out. He also got that Alastair was far worse than the rest, more powerful than the demon that had destroyed their family without blinking. That was the beginning and the end of what he knew.

As far as he could decipher, Alastair was giving Dean the choice of either watching his unconscious brother be tortured or being tortured himself. That wasn’t a choice. Just surrendering wasn’t something Dean would have even considered before hell.

Sam wasn’t surprised Dean would sacrifice himself for him. He’d done it enough times already, but it wasn’t at all like his brother to not put up at least a token fight.

Dean had come back different. He wasn’t all there and Sam had forced himself to accept that, to try to step up and fill that gap. It was one thing to know that Dean had changed, that part of his brother was gone, but it was another thing entirely to see it.

When Dean looked up, Sam didn’t recognize the man he saw in his brother’s eyes.

Dean shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the chair of the table directly in front of Sam. His brother’s empty gaze looked straight through him and past the walls of the room.

If Sam had been in his body, he could have reached out to touch Dean. He could have tried to ease the aching sorrow that muddied his brother’s features.

The careful positioning of the jacket would have made a decent delay tactic, but Sam had a sinking feeling that wasn’t what Dean was doing. There was nothing slow about his brother’s movements. It was like Dean had done when they were kids and he’d known the second he walked into the living room that Dad was going to lay into him.

The coldness crept up further inside Sam. Dean wasn’t stalling. He was preparing.

His fear was confirmed when Dean removed his denim overshirt with the same precise movements and didn’t hesitate before stripping off the long-sleeved shirt beneath it. Dean gripped the cotton in his fist. While his back was to Alastair, Dean continued to look through Sam.

Dean’s chin trembled. His eyes glistened but he blinked away the moisture. He steadied his breath, closing his eyes before they opened with a deadened gaze. His expression was blank enough that it would have stolen Sam’s breath if he’d been in his body.

This little ritual wasn’t something Dean had just pulled out of thin air. Sam was left numb as he wondered how many times Dean had turned his back on him just to push a mask over the hurt.

When Dean turned around, Sam saw the large bruise over his shoulders. Yesterday, Alastair had thrown Dean into a gravestone while they’d been trying to summon Cole’s spirit. Sam had thought it would be the worst of what Alastair would be able to do to Dean. He knew the demon was about to prove him very wrong.

No one spoke. Alastair didn’t so much as motion with his hand, but Dean somehow knew exactly what the demon wanted.

Sam stared in horrified awe as Dean lay back down on the bed and positioned himself. He stretched his arms out to the side as if he were staked to a cross with his legs slightly parted. It wasn’t a random choice. The position was too practiced, looked too familiar in the way Dean held himself waiting.

The demon reflected on it, his eyes roaming over Dean’s exposed chest, before nodding. “Brilliant idea,” Alastair said. He ran the blunt side of the razor along the flesh of Dean’s exposed belly. “Always thinking you are, son.”

Hearing the demon call Dean ‘son’, further enraged Sam. The only people he’d ever heard call Dean that were Dad and Bobby. This thing had no right. Dean was too impressionable. Too broken.

Dean’s eyes stared blankly towards the ceiling, not even flinching as Alastair set the blade aside to work free Dean’s buckle. Sam was too shocked to even react as the two moved in tandem. A demon was unfastening Dean’s pants and his brother's only reaction was to lift his hips to ease the slide of the denim down his thighs.

By the time Sam’s brain caught up, Dean was splayed naked on the bed. His jeans, boxers and boots discarded and the demon stood over him with the razor again in his hands.

And Dean just lay there. Willingly.

Not willingly as in he wanted it, but accepting. Alastair hadn’t given him much choice, but the Dean of a year ago would have fought. He would have done anything other than give in without so much as a smart-ass comment.

“Shall we get started?”

Sam had been too stunned to make any further attempts at getting Dean’s attention until he fully acknowledged the blade being drawn across his brother’s exposed torso. It didn’t matter what he had to do, he couldn’t just stand here and watch his brother allow himself to be gutted.

Dean wasn’t saving anyone by doing this. His brother had to know that. Once he was done, the best scenario was that Alastair would slit both their throats. There was no reason to go through with this, but Dean had just settled in like it was his place.

Dean couldn’t hear him, but Sam knew Alastair could. “Don’t you touch him!”

Alastair didn’t acknowledge him and no amount of effort could force Sam past the bounds of the iron chains. He’d tried every way he could think before Alastair had called Dean here. It also didn’t matter how hard he tried to throw things in the room. He wasn’t strong enough to push past whatever spell Alastair had put over him. 

Sam was left to watch helplessly as his brother’s face contorted with the pressure of the blade that easily sliced rivulets of blood over his pale skin. It looked as if Dean were bound. He wasn’t trying to escape the blade, only to control the instinctual jerks of his body.

For one, hopeful moment Sam thought that maybe Dean wasn’t choosing to lie there. Maybe it was Alastair‘s power holding him to the bed. Only Sam knew it wasn’t. The only thing holding Dean was himself.

Sam couldn’t help but think about how excited Dean had been about his new body free of scars. Free of scars that could be seen. The only mark on his body had been the tattoo and Castiel’s handprint seared into Dean’s shoulder.

Nearly the moment Sam thought of the brand, Alastair’s gaze also drifted to it. “My, my. What do we have here?” Alastair asked. “Some filthy angel left his print marring my boy.”

_My boy._

It wasn’t said as a mockery of endearment. There was possession behind the words.

Alastair set his hand over Dean’s shoulder, his fingers lining up with those of the print. Dean jolted more than he had when Alastair had sliced him with the blade. Sam wasn’t sure if Alastair was gripping that hard or if there were some other level of sensitivity there. He’d never even thought to ask Dean if it hurt. There were so many things he should have asked.

“Don’t you worry, now. We can fix that.”

Alastair’s hand moved away, replaced by the razor’s blade. It traced over the outline of Dean’s brand before moving to slice further down on his arm. After that, the cuts came quickly.

His brother’s face twisted in agony, his hands clutching the sides of the bed, back arching. Sam couldn’t fathom how Dean managed not to scream.

He prayed Dean would just let go.

The demon wanted something. Even Sam could tell by the way the razor slashed over Dean’s skin deep enough to need stitches in spots, but not enough to endanger Dean’s life. If Dean just gave in then maybe it would stop.

Only Dean wouldn’t. His brother had held out for thirty years in hell to tortures far worse than anything Alastair could do here. Now he was already broken, but no less stubborn.

Worse than the cuts was Alastair’s other hand. Sam shuddered as it ran over Dean’s body in an almost gentle caress, smearing the freshly spilt blood over ever inch of Dean’s skin. Dean didn’t shy away from the blade and arched up into the roaming hand.

Sam’s gaze jerked back to the razor when the blade was jabbed into the hollow of Dean’s hip and raked down his inner thigh. Dean’s eyes screwed shut and his jaw clamped so hard it looked like it could shatter.

His brother’s efforts failed. It was as if a dam had broken. The wounded cry torn from Dean’s throat carried all the agony Alastair had carved into him and sliced straight through Sam’s soul. It was the worst sound he’d ever heard.

Sam had never forgotten Dean’s screams as the hellhounds had torn into him, but those had been sounds of pure pain. What Sam was hearing now carried something far deeper than physical agony. Dean shook with the force of it, his muscles trembling as he fought not to curl into himself.

Alastair turned enough that Sam could see the approving smile dancing over the demon’s lips. He was going to kill this demon. Slow.

“That’s right. Let it all out.” Alastair’s hand rubbed a perverted reassurance over Dean’s red-streaked chest. “Don’t be ashamed. You never had to hold back before.”

The demon’s hand wandered down Dean’s heaving chest. It slid over his hip and dipped between his thighs. Fingers skirted the edge of the deepest gash there. Alastair’s movements were deceptively gentle as his hand hovered over the wound right before he gripped Dean’s thigh, clamping down so hard that Dean let loose another ragged scream.

This time, Dean tried to pull away. Alastair only gripped him harder, pinning him down to the mattress with the force of his grip on Dean’s thigh alone. Sam strained against the invisible field that separated him for his brother. Every ounce of his being fought to punch through, but he couldn’t so much as take a step forward.

Dean stopped struggling when Alastair met his eyes. One bloody hand pressed to Dean’s chest, guiding him to lie back down on the bed. Dean again spread his arms out to the side, hissing at the stretching of torn skin.

Tears silently rolled down Dean’s cheeks. Sam’s own face would also be wet if he wasn’t lying uselessly unconscious on the bed.

He was so focused in on the agony lining his brother’s body that he didn’t hear the knock at the door. It was the tensing of Dean’s body that broke Sam’s focus enough to hear a girl calling from the hallway.

“Hey, what’s going on in there?”

Alastair spoke in an instructional tone like Dean was a kindergartner learning his ABCs. “Tell her you need help.”

Dean shook his head. His closed eyes meant he didn’t see the blade being driven down and he still didn’t hear Sam’s warning cries. The blade gouged back into his thigh.

Alastair leaned over Dean, twisting the blade and tearing a hoarse scream from Dean’s throat before again giving Dean an order with the same, patient tone. “Answer the door.”

When Alastair moved back towards Sam’s body, Dean rolled onto his side and struggled to push himself up from the blood soaked bed. His body was covered with gashes. He limped towards the door, using the wall to support himself and leaving bloody smears where his fingers brushed against it.

Somehow, Dean again knew exactly what Alastair wanted. He made no effort to cover himself before opening the door, standing in the doorframe wearing only a coating of his own blood. 

The woman on the other side stood paralyzed. She was just some poor housekeeping girl making the rounds. Her eyes were wide as she gasped, “Oh my God. Sir, do you...”

Sam jumped as Dean lashed out. Dean threw one hand over the girl’s mouth, twisting her around to clutch her tightly to his chest and yanking her back into the room. She was screaming against his palm, eyes filled with terror and limbs flailing as Dean hauled her over to the chair.

Dean ignored her struggle as he grabbed his shirt, twisted the fabric and looped it into her mouth. There was no emotion in Dean’s eyes. They were as empty as if he was tying the knot on a trash bag.

Sam’s horror at the callousness only eased when he remembered who they were dealing with. If Dean brought the screaming woman over to Alastair, the demon would have probably cut out her tongue.

But Dean didn’t bring her to Alastair. Instead, he shoved her down onto the bloody bed before climbing on top of her. He straddled her thrashing body, using his weight to restrain her legs and torso. Alastair handed him his belt, which Dean easily looped around to bind her hands.

Dean had seemed to be running on autopilot, but hesitated as his fingers closed around the razor Alastair presented to him. Sam caught a glimpse of the brother he remembered.

As the woman bucked beneath him, Dean scanned the room. Sam knew that look. Dean was calculating the chances that Alastair had another weapon on him. The look was so fast that Alastair seemed to be reading it as something else.

Dean’s hand hovered with the blade over the woman’s chest and Alastair moved in closer, leaning over Dean, putting an arm around him. Letting down his guard.

Dean pushed off the girl, throwing all his weight into Alastair and raising the blade. He barely started to bring the weapon down before Alastair intercepted his hand. A savage twist and Alastair was standing with Dean’s back held tightly against his chest, whispering words Sam couldn’t hear while slicing the blade across his skin.

Alastair dropped Dean as the girl slipped her hands from the belt and ran for the door. He grabbed her, flinging her effortlessly back towards the bed where her skull knocked against the headboard. She fell still on the mattress.

Dean didn’t make it all the way up before Alastair’s booted foot took him down again. He crashed to the floor and Alastair was on him, clamping a hand around his throat. Dean was thrown against the bed where Sam’s body laid. He’d barely hit the mattress before Alastair threw a punch to his face.

“Let’s try this again,” Alastair coaxed as he tightened his choking grip around Dean’s throat. “For every action there is a consequence.”

Dean fought against Alastair’s hold as the demon moved the blade to Sam’s body. Sam felt nothing as the blade hovered over his own chest. It was hard to even remember that it was his body on the bed. All he could see was Dean trembling with the effort to suck in air while still fighting to protect him.

His brother’s arm blindly tried to block the blade. “No!”

“Don’t get greedy, Dean,” Alastair said with a tickle of amusement. “There’ll be plenty left for you.”

The demon’s fist caught Dean’s jaw, knocking him to the floor. Alastair stepped over him and casually returned to the bed. He tore open Sam’s hoodie and sliced through his t-shirt. His razor glided into the freshly exposed skin.

Sam didn’t watch. He had trouble even caring. His eyes locked instead on Dean who grunted, clutching his stomach and scrambling to get up. Dean rose only to his knees. He didn’t even try to stand.

Alastair took interest, the slicing stilling as he looked down to consider Dean. The demon’s hand had reached out to stroke Dean’s cheek. Dean’s only response was to nuzzle his head into Alastair’s palm.

“These bodies are quite the distraction, what with their insatiable needs.” Alastair loomed over Dean. “But you know I like to make the best of a bad situation, and since you so kindly offered...”

Alastair snatched Dean’s arm, wrenching it to pull Dean up. Dean didn’t struggle or manage to get his feet beneath him before Alastair threw him onto Sam’s bed. His brother was sprawled lengthwise over his body, just lying there as the demon gripped the base of his skull and forced him to look at the cuts over Sam’s chest.

“You did this.” Alastair shoved Dean’s face forward, smearing his nose in the blood that seeped from Sam’s wounds. “I’ll happily keep carving to bone if that’s how you want to play.”

Sam wanted to be anywhere but here watching his brother, his hero, stripped down and bloody, body trembling as he submitted to a demon. A demon that had spent decades torturing him, that Sam would give anything to save him from now.

He found his voice when the hand moved from absently petting Dean’s hair to pulling down the zipper of Alastair’s pressed slacks. His mind refused to process what he knew was about to happen.

“No!” Sam yelled. “Don’t you touch him!”

He was as helpless as the night he’d watched Dean die. As with Lilith, if anything, his protests only deepened Alastair’s grin.

The demon knelt onto the bed behind Dean, the mattress groaning as he straddled the legs of Sam’s body. Alastair’s hand pushed between Dean’s already blood-slick thighs. Whatever he was doing drew a hurt moan from Dean, who surrendered without a fight.

“Dean, get out of here!” Sam shouted in a last ditch effort to get through to his brother. “Just leave me. Go!”

Dean rose up, but didn’t get off the bed. He also straddled Sam as he shifted up onto his knees and braced himself with is elbows. The exposed posture opened him to Alastair and let Sam see the demon’s fingers intermittently twisting Dean’s balls and kneading his limp cock.

It was the last thing Sam wanted to see for so many reasons, but he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t get over the shock of the defeated submission that Dean’s body language screamed. Sam couldn’t stop wondering how many times this had happened before. 

There were no words between them as Dean rocked back, pushing towards Alastair. The demon leaned in, no longer restraining, but claiming. Rough fingers forced inside Dean, using the blood from his thigh to lubricate the passage. Alastair’s hand again smeared over Dean’s wound to slicken his own erection.

The last of the world dropped out from beneath Sam. He could only pray to wake up and find this a nightmare as Alastair buried his cock inside Dean with one, brutal thrust. Dean clutched Sam’s torn hoodie like it was the only thing holding him together, muffling his cries in Sam’s shoulder as he was rocked by the hammering of Alastair’s penetration.

A blinding wave of rage and agony drowned Sam. Dean had gone to hell for him. Now his big brother was being raped here on earth, just a few feet away and Sam couldn’t so much as let Dean know he wasn’t suffering alone.

It was an eternity of grinding mattress springs and choked whimpers before Alastair’s hips stilled, jutting forward one last time before he pulled out his spent cock and let the blood and other fluids Sam couldn’t let himself consider ooze down Dean’s legs.

Without Alastair’s support, Dean collapsed onto the bed beside Sam’s body, twitching and moaning quietly. Sam furrowed his brows as he watched the steady controlled movements of Dean’s hips and prayed that it wasn’t what it looked like, but the twist in his gut knew that it was. Dean was desperately trying to relieve the erection Alastair had forced on him before the demon noticed.

It was hopeless. Alastair was studying every inch of Dean and, despite his best efforts to hide it by nestling beside Sam’s body, Dean’s ragged breathing gave him away. Every silent prayer screaming in Sam’s mind went unanswered.

Alastair yanked Dean from the mattress he was humping. Dean would have fallen to the floor if not for the steel grip of Alastair’s hand on his arm. He shoved Dean back onto the other bed, beside the girl’s body.

“For me, Dean?” Alastair asked. “You shouldn’t have.”

The demon used one hand to pin Dean onto the bed and the other to deliver a sharp punch square to his nose. Dean fell limp next to the girl, his chest heaving and hand going protectively to his nose as Alastair moved his focus lower. The demon’s hands danced over Dean’s slick torso, stopping to rest on the flat of his belly.

Sam’s eyes had been avoiding the curve of his brother’s erection, but were locked to it in horror when Alastair took Dean’s straining cock in hand and dragged the blade of the razor down the length with a surgical precision. Blood swelled quickly to the surface. Dean choked a sob, his eyes filling with tears as Alastair’s hand slid up his erection, letting the nail of his thumb scrape over the jagged cut.

While Sam strained to throw a chair, a lamp, anything to distract the demon, Alastair teased the slit at the head of Dean’s cock with the tip of the razor. Dean’s body shook with the effort to hold excruciatingly still until Alastair pulled the razor away and patted Dean’s thigh.

“Now let’s try this again,” Alastair said. “Do you want the razor for the bitch or are you putting Sam on the rack?”

His razor wandered back between Dean’s legs, nicking to punctuate the statement. Dean lay silent until Alastair turned away. The demon reached for the zipper of Sam’s jeans.

Dean jerked on the bed, rolling to prop himself up on his side while trying to keep his legs parted. His features were strained, his breaths shallow and quick. He mumbled something Sam couldn’t make out.

Alastair froze and quirked his brow. “What’s that?”

Dean looked down at the blood-smeared blankets beneath him. “I’ll do it.”

“You’ll do what exactly?”

“I’ll do what you want.”

Alastair unbuttoned Sam’s jeans. “I want you to say it.”

“I’ll gut the goddamn bitch!”

If Sam had a heart in his chest, it would have stopped. With those words, Dean had somehow found the strength to bolt upright on the bed. There was a dark flash of hatred in his eyes, his harsh tone cold as ice.

Alastair stepped away from Sam, clasping his hands together. “Finally we’re getting somewhere.”

~~~

“Wake her up,” Alastair instructed.

Every inch of Dean’s body ached and burned. His mouth was filled with the tangy taste of blood, which continued to seep from his busted nose. He couldn’t fully see out of his left eye. If anything, he was thankful for that. He didn’t want to see what was left of himself.

Part of him acknowledged that he was on earth. That if his ribs jutted from his chest and intestines pooled at his feet, then he’d be dead. It didn’t stop his mind from seeing tattered remains of ruined flesh.

His cock throbbed like it had been skewered on a hot poker, and he knew all too well what that felt like. There was so much sticky blood smeared between his legs that he wasn’t sure what Alastair had taken or left. 

Dean’s fractured mind grappled for the only thing that mattered and it wasn’t the fact that his ass felt like it had been fucked with Alastair’s razor or that he wasn’t living past tonight. There was only one thing that mattered, only one thing he had to do.

He had to watch out for Sam.

His blurry eyes took in the precisely laid wounds over Sam’s chest. He knew that some of the blood he tasted on his tongue was his brother’s. Fucking fantastic job he’d done watching out for Sam so far. 

Dean didn’t care about throwing himself back into the fire. Tonight only proved that hell was exactly where he belonged. It was the girl beside him who deserved to be saved, but she was going to die bloody for having been stupid enough to try to save his blackened soul. He was going to kill her.

In his mind, he was already stripping her, cutting her and fucking her in all the wrong ways. He had a decade worth of experience of tearing souls to bits. He knew all the ways to scrape flesh from bones, all the ways to make it last.

“Take me instead.” Dean’s words were a whispered gasp, his last shot at saving the girl. “I need it.”

Alastair leaned against him, the fabric of his shirt abrading the cuts on Dean’s shoulder. The flat side of the razor slid down his arm. It was a gentle caress that at any moment could gouge and tear, a sensation more familiar than the flow of air in and out of his lungs.

A rough hand slid over his bloody face, cupping his cheek before rearing back to crack a fist in the exact same spot. Dean’s head knocked to the side, his vision nearly closing to black as he fumbled to catch himself. 

“You’re not wrong, son,” Alastair said, “but you have to earn it.”

The walls closed in around him. There was no way out. As long as Sam was unconscious on that bed, this room was as inescapable as the Pit. The girl on the bed with him was just another soul on the rack.

It didn’t matter that the souls he’d carved up had been there for a reason. Each cut he’d taken from them had been a cut out of his own soul. This girl, blinking her terrified blue eyes up at him as she swam back to consciousness, would be the final cut.

Dean did what he’d done in hell – looked past the nameless soul and imagined the one he wanted on the rack before him. He ripped open her shirt, just as Alastair had with Sam. When Dean brought down the razor, he saw it sliding down into Alastair’s flesh. As the girl screamed into the gag of his t-shirt, it was Alastair begging. It was Alastair’s blood that flowed over his hands.

When Alastair had tortured Dean, it had been to an end. What Dean had been trained to do, had no end.

He’d studied beneath the grandmaster not to gather information, but to maximize suffering and make it last. From the lessons carved into his own skin, Dean knew what cuts were the most damaging, the most painful. He knew those cuts didn’t come from a razor.

Just as in hell, it didn’t matter how much it hurt to hear her screams or watch the innocent girl’s tears spill down her cheeks. The best he could do was gouge her deep and end it fast, but he couldn’t even do that. The longer she lived, the longer he had to figure out how he was going to save his brother.

Dean cut shallowly, while still spilling enough blood to put on a good show. He avoided major arteries on the off chance that someone could stop him before it was over.

If the angels were coming, they would’ve been here already. It was about time Castiel had figured out that Dean wasn’t their man, but if they weren’t going to save him, they should at least stop him. They were goddamn angels. They had to save this girl and throw him back where they’d found him.

But no one came and with each slice, his control waned, his mind zoning out to safeguard itself.

“The blade alone will only get you so far,” Alastair said. “I taught you that.”

The mattress shifted and Dean swallowed a whimper. He steadied himself on his knees, one hand braced on the bed while the other continued to wield the razor. Dean’s legs were spread to grant access, positioned for Alastair to take what he wanted.

Alastair’s fingers toyed with the gash in Dean’s thigh, fingers digging at the edges. If anyone else had made the cut, it would have severed Dean’s femoral artery, but this was Alastair. The demon had spent a solid decade mapping out every vein of Dean’s body. Alastair wouldn’t have hit the artery unless he had wanted to. 

“I always did admire your enthusiasm, Dean,” Alastair said.

The demon purred the words, draping himself over Dean’s back before again rocking away to reach beneath him. An iron grip clamped around his burning cock. The relief that it was still there was lost with the realization that he was still hard and the knowledge of what Alastair was about to make him do. Dean choked down acid.

Beneath him, the girl sobbed, gagging on the fabric crammed in her mouth. She was dying beneath him and he couldn’t even say he was sorry. He could do nothing but prepare himself to rape her.

Alastair’s hands clamped onto his hips, unforgiving nails digging into Dean’s skin. He opened himself up for the demon’s rigid cock to claim. It hurt in a different way the second time around.

Dean knew from years of experience that each consecutive rape always felt different, hurt more in some ways, less in others. The burn was more constant, the tearing less. The physical entry was smoother since he was already open and slick with the leftovers from the last round.

While the girl stared up at him with wide, wet eyes, Dean lined up his own cock. It twitched as it slid against the moist warmth between her legs, which were splayed out beneath him. He pushed down beneath her opening, instead sliding in between her thigh and the sheets. 

Even though Alastair couldn’t possibly see where Dean’s cock was being shoved, he knew the demon would know what he was doing. Alastair knew everything. But Dean also knew Alastair wouldn’t care. It was far more painful for Dean’s sliced cock to drag back and forth over the sheets.

It was Alastair’s thrusts that controlled the movements of Dean’s hips, a savage pounding that bled into a slow grind. Raw nerves flared so hot that Dean swam in and out of awareness. The razor fell from his hand as his balls tightened and his release tore agony, not granted relief.

Alastair caught Dean before he could fall forward. The demon held him tight to his chest, Dean’s body sagging against the hold.

The handle of the razor was placed back into Dean’s hands. He couldn’t close his grip around it, but didn’t have to as Alastair closed his own fingers over his. Dean’s eyes were locked with the girl’s as Alastair guided his hand and drew the blade over her throat.


	3. Chapter 3

Alastair had slipped from the room humming with an easy step and a twisted smirk on his lips. Once he was gone, the room was swallowed by a silence as sick and cold as the demon who had just walked out of it.  
Before he’d left, Alastair had used the leg of the table to break the circle of iron chain that had held Sam confined. Dean didn’t seem to register the clattering and he still didn’t see Sam. Maybe it was Alastair’s mojo or maybe Dean just wasn’t seeing anything at all.

Dean’s eyes were open, but distant, glistening with a vacant loss that left Sam numb. He lay sprawled on the bed after having collapsed from exhaustion trying to save the now dead girl who lay bled out beside him. Her blood was all over Dean and now he lay in it as it cooled.

Sam couldn’t be shaking or short of breath – he didn’t have a body. He felt sick all the same, hollow and empty.

Dean had cut the blade into the girl’s skin with the same motions that Alastair had torn into Sam’s. This was what Dean had tried to tell him about hell, but could have never said with words.

He had no doubt that Alastair had wanted him to see this, thinking it would make him turn away from Dean. It wouldn’t work because Sam had seen what Alastair never could have. This only proved what Sam had all along suspected – that Dean had done only what he’d had to in order to survive.

The problem was that it wasn’t only about what Sam saw. Alastair wasn’t the only one wrong about Dean.

“Dean...”

Sam could barely croak out his brother’s name, the sound breaking into a choked sob. It didn’t matter. Dean couldn’t hear him anyway. His brother was lying right there on the bed and Sam couldn’t so much as apply pressure to stop the bleeding Dean wouldn’t attend to.

“Dean, come on, man.”

Dean’s breaths were uneven and Sam had no way of telling how much of the blood was Dean’s. Sam knew that Alastair wanted Dean alive, but he was afraid the demon had underestimated how broken Dean already was.

Sam reached out to his brother and startled back as Dean’s body jerked. Dean rolled, basically falling out of the bed, straight through Sam. Despite Sam’s useless effort to catch him, Dean thudded to the floor. He lay there stunned before using the bed as leverage to stagger to his feet.

Sam was right behind his brother as Dean limped towards the bathroom. Dean half dragged the leg Alastair had carved into. His arms were instinctively ready to catch Dean, but with no mass, he could only watch as Dean crumpled to the ground. Sam sagged down right beside him.

Dean clutched his stomach and heaved. Blood and vomit splattered across the floor. A moment later, Dean fell beside it. He curled his knees to his chest, nursing what had to be bruised, if not cracked or broken ribs. He heaved again, barely lifting his head and not opening his eyes.

Sam could only watch the pain race over his brother’s features. Pain that reached far beyond the ragged cuts and darkening bruises. Pain Sam should have seen long before this.

With every shift of Dean’s muscles, he made another quiet, hurt sound too small and vulnerable for Sam to associate with his big brother. Sam couldn’t reconcile that he’d never seen anyone so broken and this was Dean, the strongest man he’d ever known. 

Dean shook his head, bit his lips and forced himself to his feet. He grabbed the rim of the tub to haul himself up, leaving a bloody print everywhere his hands touched.

His face contorted as he sat on the rim of the tub, just barely balancing himself. Tears rolled freely down his cheeks as Dean turned around and flipped on the tub’s faucet.

“Dean, what’re you doing?” Sam asked. “You have to figure out how to wake me up.”

Dean’s hands were trembling when he moved them back from the faucet. He stared at the blood that coated them, hesitating before holding them under the water, staining the flow red. Once it ran clear, he flipped the drain to fill the tub.

Bath’s weren’t Dean’s thing, but Sam wondered if his brother could even stand long enough to shower. Dean’s legs were splayed wide to balance him on the edge of the tub and Sam couldn’t help but look, to see how much blood slickened Dean’s thighs, still dripping from his now limp cock. He couldn’t even count the gashes beneath the blood or fathom how Dean had yet to lapse into shock.

Dean stood and walked back out into the other room as the bath filled. His feet shuffled as he walked with a wide stance and only barely managed to stay upright. He stumbled over to his duffle bag and grabbed out a med kit.

“Great, now call Bobby so he can tell you how to wake me up.”

His brother walked straight through him on the way to where Sam lay. Dean set the first aid kit on the bed beside Sam and opened it up.

Sam stood so close to his brother that they overlapped. He reached his hand out to grip Dean’s shoulder. It went straight through, but Dean’s brow furrowed. His eyes were unfocused, but he did stop and look around the room.

“That’s right. I’m here, Dean. You’re gonna be okay.”

Dean shook off the sensation and it took a moment for Sam to realize that it was his own body that Dean was worried about stopping the blood flow on. His brother was going to stand there patching up Sam while he bled out.

He leaned heavily against the bed as he pulled out the gauze, struggling to tear open the packaging. Dean stopped halfway through to close his eyes, squeezing them shut and drowning a sob.

Tears flooded Dean’s eyes when he looked back down to Sam’s body. “I really fucked up, Sammy.”

“No, you didn’t, Dean.”

Dean laid the gauze over the larger wound on Sam’s chest. It probably needed stitches, but Dean obviously knew as well as Sam that his hands were too unsteady to stitch anything right now. What Dean didn’t get was that he shouldn’t be wasting time on Sam’s body at all.

With a broken sigh, Dean sagged down to the bed beside Sam. He clenched his fist before laying his hand gently over the gauze patch.

“I just wanted to protect you,” Dean said. “You know, ever since you were born, that’s all I’d wanted.”

Dean winced, pinching the bridge of his nose. Sam couldn’t tell through the blood, but he was pretty sure by Dean’s muffled voice and off breathing pattern that his nose was broken or at least still so filled with blood he couldn’t breathe through it.

“I remember when we were at the hospital. Dad held me up so I could look though the glass and see you with all those other babies. I was damned afraid they were gonna lose you. I made Dad watch you the whole time. And the first time I held you...I just never wanted anything bad to happen to you, but here I left you alone....”

“You saved my life,” Sam said. It didn’t matter that Dean couldn’t hear him. Sam still had to say it. “You’ve been saving my life for as long as I can remember.”

Dean brushed the bangs from Sam’s eyes. “You’re heading down a bad road, Sammy. You don’t know these demons like I do. Just ‘cause they put their blood in you, doesn’t make you one of them.” Dean’s left eye had swollen closed, but his right eye was still open enough that Sam could see that he was staring at the dead girl. “And just ‘cause someone doesn't got it in them doesn’t mean they’re not one. What Castiel pulled out of hell.... It wasn’t what the hell hounds dragged in.”

“No, you’re wrong. You’re still you. This wasn’t your fault. Alastair–”

“Ditch Ruby. Bobby will get you back on track. Please,” Dean whispered. Dean smoothed down the last of the gauze tape and pushed away from the bed. He sucked in a sharp breath. “If you get yourself thrown in the Pit, the first thing Alastair’s gonna do is put you on my rack and I...I can’t do it.”

“Damn it, Dean!” Sam wished he could work up enough juice to throw something at Dean, anything to knock some sense into his brother. “You’re not going back to hell!”

None of Sam’s shouting in his ear reached Dean, whose sole focus was on putting one foot in front of the other. Dean pushed aside the curtains to pour salt onto the window ledges before returning to the bathroom.

He shut off the water and stiffly eased himself into the tub. The water instantly turned bright pink, darkening to red before the waves of Dean’s entry had stilled. He hissed, releasing an unsteady breath and closed his eyes as he leaned back against the grungy tile of the shower wall.

Dean slowly slid lower into the tub. Panic roared through Sam as he watched Dean sink, unable to tell whether he was just trying to get deeper in the water or if he was losing consciousness. After everything, Sam couldn’t just stand here and watch his brother drown in a bathtub.

“Dean!”

Dean’s eyes opened again, for just a brief moment before he bent his knees enough to let his head go under. Maybe he was trying to get the blood out of his hair or maybe he was just trying to get out. Either way, Sam couldn’t stop himself from reaching in to pull him out.

Reaching for Dean didn’t do a damn thing until Sam finally broke through whatever wall Alastair had put up. He still couldn’t grab Dean, but a burst of energy blasted water from the tub. Dean’s limbs flailed and he jerked back up out of the water gasping. His eyes were unfocused as he wiped his hand over his eyes and looked around the small bathroom.

“Sam.”

The overwhelming relief didn’t have a chance to settle in before Sam realized Dean wasn’t talking to him. Dean was still staring past him and had spoke his name more as if he were remembering something than as if he were speaking to Sam. Maybe Dean suddenly remembered that Sam was in the other room useless and unconscious when he could be helping him.

It took a couple tries, but Dean got out of the tub. He grabbed a towel and rubbed it quickly over his body, groaning as it ran too harshly over the cuts that Sam could now clearly see. They’d already started bleeding again.

Dean tossed the towel aside and headed back for the beds. He didn’t go anywhere near the first aid kit. Instead, he stopped to stand at the side of the bed where the girl’s body lay. Dean’s eyes moved between the gashes that marred her skin and his own hands.

“I know it doesn’t stand for shit, but I’m sorry.” Dean’s voice broke as he rested his hand on her cooling arm. “They should’ve left me in the Pit where I belong.”

He squeezed her arm before stepping away to retrieve his jeans. Without bothering with boxers or a single bandage, he jerked them and did the same with his denim overshirt, buttoning it up when he’d never wore that shirt without another beneath.

Dean hesitated before reaching beneath the shirt and pulling out his amulet. He squeezed it tightly in his fist then pulled it from his neck. Sam shook his head, putting all his focus into reaching out to his brother, who was walking towards his body.

“Dean, don’t do this.”

Dean looped the amulet over Sam’s head and rested his hand over it where it now lay on Sam’s chest. “You were right, Sammy.”

“About what?” Sam marched around the bed so he was inches from Dean’s face. “What was I right about, Dean?”

Dean ruffled his hand through Sam’s hair. It was something his brother hadn’t done for longer than Sam could remember.

“You’re not gonna tell me.” Sam’s tone was accusing, his faced slack with disbelief. “You’re not gonna tell me any of this happened to you? You’re just gonna walk out that door and disappear?”

Dean turned his back and pulled out his cell phone. Sam knew he was calling Bobby by the fact the number was on speed dial. He was shocked by the shift in his brother’s eyes as Dean steeled himself to sound like he hadn’t just lived the worst night of his life and like he wasn’t about to give up.

“Hey, Bobby.”

Dean’s voice was raw, but it was a lot lately. Sam was afraid that if he hadn't been looking at Dean, he might not have heard the silent tears running down his brother’s cheeks. He didn’t think that even he would hear the complete devastation in Dean’s tone.

He wondered how man times since Dean had returned from hell that he had called, only pretending to be okay. He wondered how much of the last few months had all been an act.

“Yeah, I’m fine, but we got a little problem. Yeah, yeah, nothing’s new.” Dean walked away from Sam’s body and back into the bathroom. “I need you to swing by the motel. I’m on the tail of something nasty and if I double back I’m gonna lose it, but I need someone to wake up Sam. No, he ain’t sleeping on the job. We were doing that astral plane thing...of course you know about it. You sent us.”

The conversation rambled on, but Sam was too lost in Dean’s action to bother listening to the lies being spoken. Dean had grabbed the towel and was wiping the blood from the rim of the tub as he listened to Bobby.

As soon as Dean gave Bobby the info he needed, he slammed closed the phone and sank to the floor beside the tub, whimpering as he sat, curling his knees to his chest. He struggled for air before leaning over to use the towel to wipe up the bloody vomit from the floor.

He pulled himself up and tossed the phone onto the counter, the phone Sam could otherwise use to track him. Dean went back to the main room and dug out the whiskey, downing half the bottle before wrapping the woman’s body in the bed’s comforter with the towel.

Any other person would have collapsed after the first few cuts of Alastair’s razor, but Dean wasn’t only still conscious, he was hauling the girl’s body from the bed. He staggered under her weight, catching himself against the wall. Sam followed Dean out to the vacant parking lot where he propped the barely concealed body against the car.

A shiver shook through Dean as he fumbled to get the key into the lock. There was snow on the ground and Dean’s breath could be easily seen in the air. When they’d gone to do the ritual at the cemetery yesterday, they’d worn their heavy jackets and gloves, now Dean was barely dressed. He hadn’t even put his shoes on.

As soon as he had the backdoor open, Dean dumped the body onto the back bench. It only confirmed Sam’s fear when Dean didn’t blink at throwing the blood-soaked comforter onto the upholstery.

“Don’t you dare do this,” Sam said.

Dean went back to the room. Sam followed down the hall beside him, but froze outside the door when he saw the glowing blue sigils drawn over the wood. They were the same invisible markings that the demons had used to keep the angels out of the funeral home while Alastair had tried to kill the reapers. The angels hadn't abandoned Dean, they just hadn't been able to get in. 

He wished he could tell Dean as much as he watched his brother lay a thick salt line just inside the door. Dean checked it before locking the door and heading back to the car. 

Sam flickered into the passenger seat while Dean slumped into the driver’s seat. He just sat there running his hand over the steering wheel. The streetlights alone gave enough light for Sam to see the bruises already forming over Dean’s face. Fresh blood seeped from his brow, split cheek and his nose.

Dean rubbed it away with the back of his hand when blood made it over his upper lip to drip into his mouth. It was enough to pull him back and make him fire up the car.

There was nothing but emptiness in Dean’s eyes as he gunned the engine and swerved the Impala out of the parking lot. The movements of the car didn't affect him, but instinct made Sam brace as Dean took the next corner too hot. Sam was sure Dean would hit a light pole before he even made it to wherever he was going, but Dean eased up on the gas after the Impala rode up over the curb.

While Dean seemed to know exactly where he was going, Sam had no clue where they were when Dean pulled off the road. It was some kind of park on the edge of town. There were widely spaced oak trees surrounded by grassy hills. It was probably beautiful in the light.

Dean didn’t stop in the parking lot, but turned onto a gravel road. Sam grimaced, watching the pain flare over Dean’s face at every rough pothole the car hit. The car stopped on the slope of a boat ramp. Dean held his foot on the brake, but didn’t cut the engine.

“What’re you doing?” Sam whispered, as if his silent words could push Dean over the edge.

The waves lapped gently against the base of the ramp. A light fog had settled over the lake and on the other side, the sky was tinged red behind the silhouette of the trees on the horizon. Sam knew Dean didn’t see any of it as he stared out at the water.

His mind flashed to Dean’s face slipping beneath the water of the tub. He was never going to get over that sight. If Dean decided to drive this car into the lake, he might as well take Sam along with him.

Dean tightened his hands around the steering wheel before slamming his fist against it and shutting off the car. If Sam had been in his body, he would have let himself breathe again.

It took considerable effort for Dean to push open the car door. He grunted as he stood, having to stop to catch his breath just in the distance between sitting and standing. His hand set against his thigh, resting against his groin as he doubled over.

When he straightened back up, he went for the backdoor and pulled it open. The creaking of the hinge was loud in the still, early morning air.

Dean reached in to haul out the woman’s body. He tried to lift her carefully, but the weight was too much this time and Dean crumpled to the ground right beside her. The comforter concealing her fell loose, revealing her face, blank eyes staring up at the fading stars.

Sam stood anxiously looking down at his brother as Dean stared at the girl’s face. This wasn’t something Dean should be doing alone. It wasn’t something he should be doing at all.

Dean came back to himself, averting his eyes. He sat back up, using the car to help him stand, before dragging the body to the far side of the ramp.

Dean walked back over and opened the trunk to pull out a gas can, but didn’t bother with the salt. He was just trying to get rid of the body and obviously didn’t have the strength to dig even a shallow grave.

The gasoline splattered over the girl’s body, no doubt onto Dean too with how sloppily he was splashing it from the can. Dean tossed the empty can aside and pulled out a lighter.

It took half a dozen tries before he managed to spark a flame. He stood stiffly over the gasoline soaked bundle before taking a step back and throwing down the lighter. Flames flared up and the fire’s flickering lit up Dean’s ghostly pale face. His eyes were locked somewhere in the crackling pop of sizzling flesh.

Sam stood shoulder to shoulder with Dean, watching not the burning body, but his brother’s desolate face. He only looked away when a translucent form swept in just outside of his perception. He spun to see Tessa standing behind them.

He felt the same despair his brother wore on his face, before throwing it off with determination. Dean’s back was still turned, oblivious to the reaper, whene Sam stepped to the side, putting himself between Tessa and Dean.

“No,” Sam said. “You’re not taking him.”

She looked at him with the ageless impassion of death before her expression softened and she stepped closer. Sam only firmed his stance until he glanced to the side to see Dean’s gasoline splattered hand stretching towards the flames.

Sam’s reached out to stop him. This time he made contact, his hand gripping hard around Dean’s wrist. His brother startled, trying weakly to pull away while struggling to focus his eyes.

“Sam?”

Sam was pulled back before the answer could leave his lips.


	4. Chapter 4

Bobby had worked fast. The sloppily bandaged wounds over Sam’s chest and the amulet hanging on the wrong neck had no doubt given away that there was a lot Dean hadn’t told him. Then Bobby had found Pamela’s mangled body where it had been crammed beneath the bed. Even his rushed ritual to wake Sam hadn’t been fast enough.

Every one of Sam's breaths pulled at his sliced skin. He wished it hurt more so he could think of anything aside from the sight of the reaper closing in on his brother. He clutched the amulet, knowing all too well what it meant that his brother had given it back.

He’d told Bobby only as much as he had to not because he didn’t think Bobby needed to know everything, but because Sam couldn’t make himself say it. Right now, just air to breathe was a commodity. He couldn’t draw in enough oxygen for words.

The clunker Bobby had showed up in sputtered down the same gravel road Sam had ridden down with Dean last night. When it slowed, Sam didn’t wait for Bobby to shut off the engine before throwing open the door and jumping out.

The Impala was still parked by the lake, sitting lonely on the boat ramp. Morning had come, but it was still early and this part of the park was isolated. Dean had obviously known that when he’d picked the spot.

Sam found the Impala empty, only traces of dried blood remained on the seats. A still smoldering pile of ash on the cement of the ramp was fanned by a gentle breeze. Sam got a sick sense of relief in knowing that Dean’s body wouldn’t have burned so cleanly.

There was a sour taste in his mouth as he looked away from the blackened remains. Before he could call out for his brother, Sam saw Bobby on the other side of the Impala. He’d pulled his cap from his head and was staring down at the ground.

Sam recognized that look in Bobby’s eyes. It was the same one Bobby had worn when Sam had brought him Dean’s body after the hellhounds had finished with it.

“No–”

“Sam...” There was a gentle warning in Bobby’s tone before he knelt out of sight. His next whispered words were directed towards someone else. “Oh, kid.... What’d you go and do?”

Once Sam forced himself to take the first step, his stride became a sprint and he raced around to the other side of the car. He jerked to a stop a couple feet from Bobby.

Dean lay slumped on the ground. Dark splotches had soaked through his jeans and shirt, dried blood was smeared over his face where Dean had tried to wipe it away. A gun was held loosely in his still hand.

Bobby pulled Dean up to lean against him. He was limp in Bobby’s arms. Dean’s head hung at his side while Bobby ran his hands over it before moving his fingers down to Dean’s neck.

“I think he’s alive.”

Bobby didn’t sound like he believed his own words and it took a moment for them to sink in for Sam. He’d already braced himself for the inevitable, so sure of what they would find. To hear the contrary left Sam lightheaded.

He dropped beside Bobby, having to feel for himself. His hand fumbled for Dean’s throat. The skin was frigid to the touch. Sam was about to tell Bobby he’d been wrong when he felt it. The pulse was thready and far too fast, but it was there. When he leaned in close, he could hear the shallow breaths beneath the lapping of the lake.

Sam sat on the ground and took his brother from Bobby, who had already pulled out his phone. He wanted to just throw Dean in the car and go, but the hospital was close and Dean was too unstable for them to transport on their own unless they had to. 

While Bobby talked to the 911 operator, Sam moved his legs so he could pull Dean to his chest. The pain of the weight leaning against his wounded chest didn’t matter.

When Sam sighed, he could still clearly see his breath. Even he was already beginning to feel cold as he sat on the moist, almost icy, pavement. He again felt Dean’s skin and grimaced. The morning chill had stolen the warmth Dean’s body was struggling to keep. Dean had felt warmer when they’d last buried him.

Sam squirmed out of his jacket and laid it over Dean before again pulling his arms around Dean’s chest in the hopes his own body heat would transfer to his brother.

“Just hang on, Dean.”

He eyes wandered down to the gun beside them. The trigger was cocked. Sam gripped Dean as if he could hold his soul in if it tried to escape. He only let go long enough to pull the amulet from his neck and slide it back onto Dean.

Sam leaned his head forward, his chin resting against Dean’s head. “You’re not going anywhere.”

He tilted his head up when Bobby’s worn boots came back into view. “They’re on the way,” Bobby said. “How’s he holding up?”

Sam could only look up at Bobby, his eyes desperate and his mind unable to form words.

Bobby nodded, slipped his cap back on and grunted as he crouched down beside Sam. He set his hand to the side of Dean’s face, taking in the split, bruise-mottled skin.

“You even think about checking out again and I’ll come down there to drag you outta the Pit myself,” Bobby said with a pat to Dean’s cheek.

Despite the words, it was far from comforting that Bobby’s eyes glistened as much as Sam’s. The older man shrugged off his jacket too and laid it over Dean’s lap. He squeezed Sam’s shoulder before standing again.

While Bobby went about cleaning up anything suspicious, Sam closed his eyes, resting his head back against Dean’s. His knotted shoulders sagged in relief at the wail of ambulance’s siren closing in.

~~~

Sam held the amulet clutched in his fist. They’d made him take it off before they’d rolled Dean away on the gurney. He shifted on the vinyl seat and rubbed his hands over his sandpaper-dry eyes. Every time he closed them, it all played over again.

He saw Alastair on top of Dean, tearing into him. He saw his brother’s blood-soaked body barely holding itself together and the man Alastair had tried to convince Dean he was. The only thing worse than remembering what he'd seen was knowing it was far from the worst thing that had ever happened to Dean. 

His brother’s heart had stopped just after the ambulance had left the lake. Sam had tried to make himself small to give the medics room to work when all he wanted was to push them out of the way so he could be the one to save his brother.

When Dean’s pulse had returned, the medics kept throwing out stats and asking for confirmations, as if the numbers had to be wrong. Dean’s blood pressure had been too low to chart, his heart still pumped when it shouldn’t be able to and his body temperature had been impossible for a living person. No one had been surprised that Dean had gone into cardiac arrest. They just couldn’t figure out how he’d come back from it.

They’d said it was a miracle, but Sam knew there was no such thing. People not dying was why they’d come to this town in the first place. For all they knew, Dean was only alive because Alastair had snagged Tessa again before she’d been able to reap him. 

Machines had been doing all of Dean’s breathing for days now. It had been countless hours of Dean being shuffled in and out of surgery. He’d been given enough transfusions to replace the majority of the blood in his veins. They’d stitched him up, inside and out.

This was the first day Dean was breathing on his own. He’d woken up for the first time this morning. Sam understood that Dean couldn’t eat solid food yet – it was the fact that Dean didn’t want to that bothered him.

Ever since Dean had woken up, nearly eight hours earlier, he’d lied still in the bed and stared towards the window. Occasionally he’d clutch the sheets in his hands or a grimace would tighten his features, but he hadn’t said a word.

Turning the television on hadn’t even pulled Dean’s empty gaze away from whatever he was staring at. Sam sighed as he leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands.

“I’m not leaving,” Sam said. “You don’t have to say anything about it and we don’t have to tell them you’re talking.”

Sam wasn’t sure which scenario weighed heavier on Dean. He knew Dean hadn’t wanted to talk about hell before and maybe that was all this silence was about. But he was also afraid that Dean was keeping quiet because of what the doctors had said. They wanted him to talk to someone about what had been done to him, and of course the police were asking questions.

“I saw everything.” Sam set his hand on the bedrail. “Dean, I was there the whole time.”

Dean’s eyes remained on the window, but his head gave a slight nod. “I know.”

The voice was rusty from disuse, but Sam’s heart raced with the relief of hearing it. Then the words that had been spoken sunk in.

“You know?” Sam asked. “I didn’t think you could see me.”

“I couldn’t. I mean, I don’t know…I don’t really remember, but Tessa told me.”

“You talked to Tessa?” Sam sat up in his chair. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to ask at what point in crossing the line between living and dead they’d had that conversation. “Did Alastair come back for her?”

“No. He missed the ritual. We saved the seal.” Dean said it with all the enthusiasm of someone watching paint dry. “She hadn’t come for me.”

Sam’s frown deepened at Dean’s tone. He sounded betrayed, like Tessa had no right to leave him behind. Sam wished he were reading Dean’s muffled voice wrong, but his brother’s expression confirmed Sam's fear.

Dean’s hand came up to pick at the tape of one of his IV lines. “I put a gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger.”

Sam’s hand had been halfway to grasping Dean’s, but dropped to the blanket. It wasn’t even the words, it was the way Dean said them without a trace of emotion, just coolly stated fact. Sam kept silent both because there was nothing he could say and because he was afraid if he did speak, Dean would never bring it up again.

“The damn gun jammed,” Dean said, sounding angry.

Slowly, Sam came to understand the meaning of what Dean was saying. As far as Sam knew, Dean had never had a gun jam. He was too meticulous about model selection and cleaning. Dad had drilled it in to him from day one that it only took one missed shot. 

“Tessa wouldn’t reap me. She took that girl, but she wouldn’t take me.” Both Dean’s voice and expression had shattered. He turned his head to bury his face against his pillow before steadying his breath. “Castiel popped in to tell me we’d saved the seal like I should give a flying crap and then the stupid son of a bitch zapped me.”

“What were you trying to do?” Sam asked.

Dean’s jaw tensed. His face was still swollen and discolored. Sam kept thinking back to the man he’d seen sliced open and holding down a woman, enduring Alastair’s punishments and still hauling around a body. Now Dean looked fragile, wrapped in bandages with bundles of wires running from him.

Sam didn’t need Dean to answer the question. He had enough information to know that Castiel had incapacitated Dean to stop him from hurting himself, maybe even to ease his pain, until Sam and Bobby could get there.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Dean whispered. “I don’t deserve to be here.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Dean, because apparently both God and Death disagree. I think you’ve been outranked.” Dean let out a pained breath and Sam found the ability to move his hand, grasping Dean’s to make him stop scratching at the IV. “How bad does it hurt?”

“I’ve had worse.” Dean actually looked at him for the first time since Alastair, but he could have shaken his brother when he realized that Dean’s gaze had drifted to Sam’s chest. “You okay?” 

“No. Dean, I’m not okay. I know you’re not either and I’m tired of pretending we are.”

Dean quickly looked away. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”

“Don’t. It wasn’t you. None of this is on you, Dean. I’m the one the demons wanted from the start. I dragged you down into this.”

“No.” Dean bit at his swollen lip. “You were right.”

“You said that back in the room. What was I right about?”

Dean met Sam’s eyes again before looking back down to the blankets. “That I’m not strong enough.”

There was nothing Sam wouldn’t give to take back those words that had obviously been festering inside of Dean. Worse than having said them was that he had lied to his brother. The siren hadn’t just made him say that. He’d honestly believed it and he couldn’t have been more wrong.

“No, you’re the one who was right. There’s no going back, but Dean, I’m through with Ruby and the demon blood. I don’t know if I can just...but I’ll find a way off it. I don’t know why I ever even thought–”

“You’re not the problem, Sam.”

“And neither are you.” Sam gripped Dean’s arm to keep his brother’s focus. “It’s Alastair and we’ll find him. We’ll stop him.”

“And Lucifer? The apocalypse?”

Sam wanted to go to war with the entire world for how heavy a weight had been put on both their shoulders. He’d given up on the notion of fair long ago. Dean shouldn’t have to be lying half-dead in a hospital bed wondering how he was going to save five billion other people, but it didn’t change the fact that was reality.

“And anything else they got,” Sam said. He leaned forward with the amulet in hand, slipping the necklace back over Dean’s head to rest on his brother’s chest where it belonged. “It doesn’t matter. We win or they win. Either way we go down fighting.”

Dean’s hand moved from fussing with the sheets to grasp the metal that was still warm from Sam’s death grip on it. He looked up from his chest to quirk a brow at Sam.

“You totally ripped off my speech,” Dean said.

Sam chuckled through the tears that were on the edge of falling, but it was true. It wasn’t something Dean would say now, but it was what the brother he remembered would’ve told him when Dean had been strong enough to carry them both.

Now it was Sam’s turn. Not to be stronger than Dean, but to be strong for him.


End file.
